


Five Times Sherlock Thought about Anthea (and Mycroft)

by ljs



Series: the Power stories [5]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Alternate Canon, F/M, Gen, Post Reichenbach, Pre Study in Pink
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-06-16
Updated: 2012-06-16
Packaged: 2017-11-07 21:44:18
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,363
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/435767
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ljs/pseuds/ljs
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A step or two off canon and running adjacent to the Power Mycroft/Anthea stories, from before "A Study in Pink" into the Hiatus. Sherlock-POV: pretty much what it says on the tin.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Five Times Sherlock Thought about Anthea (and Mycroft)

1\. Some Months Before the Introduction of John Watson

 

Once Sherlock was out of the hospital and back in his flat -- he really needed a better place, perhaps a flatmate as well -- it struck him.

"She didn't call Mycroft 'sir,'" he said to his skull, who did not answer back. 

'She' was Mycroft's assistant Anthea, to whom Sherlock had only spoken once before today. From that meeting a year ago he had deduced that she'd come from a wealthy family (good jewelry, tastefully deployed on her sober but expensive Whitehall suiting), she'd excelled at Oxford, possibly Balliol, probably History since she worked for Mycroft and she didn't seem the Maths type, she'd done something adventurous on her gap year, he was thinking Central America although it was possibly Russia, something about the way her coat flapped open in the -5 Celsius night but she seemed unfazed, twenty-five (which was sixteen years younger than Mycroft) and yet she gazed upon him with the strangest expression, affection but also....

"Why don't you stop me when I start deducing things I don't want to?" he snapped to the skull.

Today Anthea had stood, typing away at her phone, next to Mycroft in the hospital ward whilst Mycroft had glared down at Sherlock lying sulkily in bed. It had only been a broken rib or two, nothing to worry about, the case was solved. But Mycroft's glare had been reminiscent of the winter day when seven-year-old Sherlock, using a spare builder's ladder left in the corridor, had climbed up to inspect the oubliette in the empty East Wing of their house and got trapped up in the unheated space. After an unhappy four hours during which Sherlock had tried to remember what he knew about people freezing to death, Mycroft (home for the Christmas hols) had deduced where he was and climbed up and let him out. When they were safe on the proper floor, however, Mycroft had turned that glare on Sherlock and said grimly, "If you _ever_ do that again, I'll let you freeze." Probably a lie, Sherlock knew, but he hadn't cared to test it. (And Sherlock couldn't quite forget that when Mummy had badgered them at tea about dust on their clothes, Mycroft hadn't sneaked on him.)

After an unpleasant four minutes of eye-death today, Anthea had said, "Mycroft, you do have a meeting at Vauxhall Cross in an hour. Should I change it?"

"No, thank you, Anthea," he'd said to her, and then glared at Sherlock thirty more seconds for good measure before stalking off. Anthea had followed, no, not followed, not on Mycroft's heels but at his side.

Sherlock considered the ramifications of that and then said to the skull, "Insufficient data for such an unprecedented and preposterous event -- someone liking _Mycroft_ , please." 

The skull didn't answer him. Really, Sherlock did need a flatmate. A friend.

.....................................................

2\. The Day After Sherlock Met John Watson

 

Having had the last word with Mycroft -- and after having John shoot a man for him whilst still managing to solve a crime on his own -- Sherlock strode off to celebrate an excellent day with a Chinese dinner. John was wittering pleasantly at his elbow -- a much better companion than the skull -- and all in all, Sherlock was distinctly pleased with himself.

There was no explanation other than shock for his glancing back over his shoulder, only to see Mycroft and that assistant of his, Anthea, Balliol, history, good with a smartphone, didn't call Mycroft "sir." Illuminated by spinning ambulance lights, they stood a few feet apart gazing at each other, faces washed passion-red and then pale and then passion-red again. 

Mycroft moved then, faster than Sherlock had seen him in years, perhaps since that one hols he'd caught Sherlock reading his school reports. ("Exceeds expectation in every way, which one would think impossible," the schoolmaster had said. Years later the same schoolmaster, the same fool would suspend Sherlock for unauthorised experimentation in the chem lab after hours. Clearly a man who didn't know anything.)

Anthea put out her hand to Mycroft, but he was already sliding one hand up her forearm, stroking her as he turned her into him. She threw back her head and smiled up at him. He didn't smile, but gazed down at her, passion-red and then pale and then passion-red again.

If he didn't know Mycroft, he'd think that this was indeed the beginning of a passionate encounter. But not Mycroft, no. Not even shock could make Sherlock deduce that.

John's elbow in Sherlock's ribs recalled his attention. "What were you saying about how to tell a good Chinese restaurant?"

"Yes! Yes, well --" And as Sherlock began to elucidate the small details which meant so much in such a case, he put the matter of one small impossible conclusion aside.

Shock. Clearly, shock – and the pleasure of having a friend.

.............................................

3\. During the Eighteen Months between “A Study in Pink” and “The Fall”

 

If it hadn't been an emergency _and_ fairly well guaranteed to make Mycroft splutter, Sherlock wouldn't have ventured to break into his brother's St James flat at half-six on a cold February Sunday morning. Still, at least it wasn't boring....

Except that before he could finish the electronic unlocking of the almost hidden outer entry, the door was suddenly flung open: Mycroft, unshaven but freshly showered and in weekend tweed trousers and brogues and an ancient Arran jumper. "What do you think you're doing?" he said, mingling thunderous disapproval and contempt in a way Sherlock very much resented. 

However, he did need something. Instead of snapping back, he said merely, "Emergency."

Mycroft sighed, annoyingly. "Money, I suppose. Come in."

He led the way to his stupid private lift. After punching in a sequence of eight numbers -- Mummy's birthday; how tedious of him, how easy to break -- he threw over his shoulder, "I'll be changing the code once you're gone, never fear." Then, while the lift doors slid apart, "Get in. And we should talk about your failure to adhere to proper breaking-and-entering protocol. Always disable CCTV first, you dolt."

"Perhaps I meant you to see me," Sherlock said, and stepped inside the lift with a dramatic flutter of coat.

"Perhaps," said Mycroft with Sahara-dryness, and followed, and punched in the code for his flat. This time he didn't let Sherlock see it.

Once inside the flat, however, he gestured his brother in. "Kitchen," he said, and then, in a carrying voice, "My dear, we do have a visitor."

_We_? Sherlock looked around: two weekend cases by the door, a sleek Vuitton case next to the one Mycroft had inherited from Father; orchids in the hallway; smell of fresh coffee. And--

Anthea, also freshly showered (Mycroft's soap, her own shampoo and conditioner, long hair still a bit damp) and wearing Mycroft's dressing gown and possibly, no, definitely nothing else, emerged from the kitchen. "Hi," she said blandly, and then to Mycroft, "Your breakfast's ready, darling, and there's enough for a spare. I'll just go change, shall I?"

"Thank you, my dear. This interruption shouldn't materially affect our schedule," Mycroft said, and dropped a kiss on her mouth before shoving Sherlock deeper into the flat and from there into the kitchen.

"Shagging your assistant now, are you?" Sherlock said scathingly. "Isn't that indiscretion at best, harassment at worst?"

"Not, strictly speaking, your business. And no longer my assistant," Mycroft said. He pointed Sherlock to a stool at the kitchen island. "How much do you need, and for what purpose?"

Sherlock opened his mouth to needle, to push a little harder, but then he looked at Mycroft. His brother seemed... happy,as relaxed as he'd ever be. Well, underneath the simmering irritation. 

It wasn't exactly affection, but something near it, that led Sherlock to say instead, "I need to buy my way in to see an ophiologist. Case I'm working on."

"The blonde woman at the morgue? You're thinking snakebite?" Mycroft said, then, "Well. Just this once."

When Sherlock left, he had a full stomach (Anthea made very good eggs, and the out-of-season tomatoes had been tasty), a thousand pounds in twenties in his coat pocket, and the slightly disturbing mental picture of Anthea --also in an ancient Arran sweater, tweed trousers, and country brogues -- leaning over Mycroft's shoulder and Mycroft reaching up absently to catch her hand and entwine their fingers. 

"Your brother hand out the dosh?" John said, when Sherlock stalked back into 221B.

"Yes. And are you wearing _my_ dressing gown?"

..............................

4\. Some Months after “The Fall”

 

The wind off the Seine was bitter. Sherlock almost lifted a hand to turn up his coat collar, until he remembered that he wasn't wearing his proper coat but a tattered anorak suitable for his current undercover work. And then, unasked for, the memory washed over him, cold worse than the wind:

_“Can we not do this this time?”_

_“Do what?”_

_“You. Being all mysterious with your cheekbones, and turning your coat collar up so you look cool.”_

The memories were... unhelpful. Unavoidable. 

He looked down at his gloved hands clutching the railing of the Pont des Arts, looked beyond at broken water, and began to recite the list of elements in his head. 

He had reached atomic number 22, titanium, when he heard footsteps approaching, and then a familiar woman's voice saying “Vernet.”

Anthea, Mycroft's not-assistant. The ridiculously obvious code-word Mycroft had chosen. 

She had contrived a good, simple disguise, Sherlock took in at a glance: grey powder brushed through her hair, which was pulled ruthlessly back into a bun; ordinary glasses; a coat two sizes too big for her, and sensible, dowdy shoes. A scarf cleverly concealed the clean young lines of her jaw. In other words, she looked like a middle-aged academic, someone unremarkable in the crowds heading for the Louvre.

She smiled – a tight expression, more a rearranging of facial muscles than the gleam he'd seen in her last, in Mycroft's flat – and kept walking. After an adequate time, he followed.

She crossed the street and went into the Porte de Lion entrance, he only a few paces behind. At the security checkpoint – no line – she flashed something he couldn't see and then gestured to him. The guard nodded and let them through. Then she led him to a door discreetly marked for staff. Once through, she went down a corridor to an office bare of anything but a desk and two chairs.

“Shut the door, _s'il vous plait_ ,” she said.

He did so, and then allowed himself to lean against it. God, he was tired. But – “No need to be so formal, surely. Where's Corcoran?”

“On the sick list.” She took the seat behind the desk. “Two gunshots to the leg. We believe that Gatto's team was tipped off that he was your contact.”

Sherlock closed his eyes. Jay Corcoran, raised in America but with a British mother and citizenship, twenty-seven, puppy-like surface hiding a damn good mind, native fluency in French, a field-agent's skill; he liked his tea black and his beer bitter, and that was all the personal information Sherlock had been able to deduce in the three meetings they'd had since St Petersburg.

“Before or after the drop and identity switch?” Sherlock said, his eyes open again.

“Mycroft received your information, and passed it along to our friends in Interpol. The Italian cell Moriarty set up has been... de-commissioned. So, for both points of your query, after. And Corcoran's shooter has been apprehended.” This time when she smiled, it was real. “Sit down before you fall down, Holmes the Younger.”

Right, that was annoying. “You feel it's safe enough to use names, do you?”

“Yes. A stupid question. You began using them.” She began to unbutton her coat, slowly, with cold-numbed fingers – no, it was an act, she was stalling, possibly because she didn't want to pass along the packet, no, more likely to give him time to sit. He'd been a bit slow this week, since twisting his ankle doing a spot of parkour to escape a very unattractive Algerian assassin sent by Paul Rousseau – not aimed for the dead man Sherlock Holmes, though, but for Henry Flood, petty thief who'd joined Rousseau's Paris cell just long enough to find the Moriarty-trained criminals he sought.

(Footsteps on the rooftop that first adventure, seeking someone who'd got away. John jumping when Sherlock told him to. Foot on the edge of the roof, John's face in his mind before he aimed for the truck full of mattresses, Mycroft had hit the mark exactly and the fall was easy, the afterward harder.)

He sat, and blew out a breath. “If you're no longer Mycroft's assistant, how did he talk you into this? I ask merely for information.”

“Oh, he didn't. I volunteered for the job as your handler, and he was none too easy to convince. None too easy at all, not that he ever is. Mycroft is difficult. He's a Holmes.” She pulled a thick brown envelope from an interior coat pocket. “But I love him dearly, and so I know the right buttons to push.”

_'It's a magic trick.'_ Sherlock looked down at his hands again – that was growing to be a habit, a tell, he'd make a point not to do it once he left here. “What buttons did you push, then?”

“Guilt and responsibility, of course. And, though indirectly, his perverse sense of symmetry. If you have risked _your_ heart, why shouldn't he?” She pushed the envelope across the desk. “Not that he would acknowledge that on any level. And I am trusting you, Sherlock, not to repeat it to him – and not to fuck this up for either of us.”

The unexpected obscenity, delivered in her blandest voice, made him laugh even though he ached a little, irrationally, constantly.... He picked up the envelope. “You're being amazingly indiscreet for someone he trained, for someone of your temperament. You're not an open person, Anthea, you're very fond of secrets.”

“Yes. And I wouldn't say this to anyone but you. Little brother.” The descriptor was ridiculous, he being nine years older than she, but her smile was beautiful and cool, and he let it stand. “Oh, Sherlock, I watched you for him for years. I know what buttons to push with you, too.” The smile became serious. “Now I've only a few minutes before I need to be back to my own job. Give me what you have, and then we can set up the Prague meets. Mycroft will want to see you there.”

“No, I don't want him to.” 

“Too bad. I'm running you now.” She tapped the desk. “Your intel, _s'il vous plait._ ”

“I'm not sure how Mycroft bears with you,” he said – sarcasm; he now understood her, understood the titanium strength and lightness of her and how that would bind Mycroft – and pulled his own envelope from the depths of his anorak.  
...................................

 

5\. A Month Before The Return

 

Untasted cheap American beer in front of him, Sherlock sat at a table in the back corner. This beachside bar near the Venice, California boardwalk was tourist-lively even at midnight, but he judged he had adequate privacy.

No one wanted to sit next to someone who smelled as bad as he did. _He_ wouldn't want to sit next to himself at the moment.

A movement in the corridor leading to the back entrance was caught in his peripheral vision – and even with the canned pop music (so offensive) from the bar's stereo system and the shouts of various drunks, he also caught familiar footsteps. He'd been working with Anthea for a year now, and she wasn't bothering to change her walk here. No reason to, really, so long as she hadn't been followed.

When she emerged into view, she glanced at him then at her BlackBerry, and then went to the bar. Nice camouflage, Sherlock judged – inexpensive and disposable American trainers, cropped trousers, a blousy man's shirt, plaits. No one else in this place would recognise the fineness of the cotton in that shirt, which he deduced had been stolen from Mycroft's country wardrobe.

He gave his glass of beer a quarter-turn, meditatively. As a boy he'd always stolen Mycroft's shirts too, and his jumpers, just to see his brother's face redden with temper; Mycroft liked order, in the world and in his wardrobe, but could only control the latter... unless Sherlock was around. Also, something about wearing the too big shirts had (irrationally) made young Sherlock feel safe and protected.

He'd been thinking for the past hour about Mycroft's phone call the day Moriarty had been taken into secret custody, the poorly concealed anxiety in his voice whilst Sherlock had been tramping around Dartmoor fighting his own fears. He'd been thinking about his childhood, and the utter relief he'd felt that winter day when Mycroft had pushed open the door of the oubliette to rescue him. Thinking too about the bitterness of waking from his first overdose to see Mycroft's glare, and how that time (and all subsequent times) he'd missed what underlay it. Thinking about the tremor in Mycroft's hands when he'd met Sherlock in the Barts morgue the day of the fall, although he'd been rock-steady up until that moment.

Guilt and responsibility. Those were Mycroft's weak points, not his.

“What news on the Rialto?” she said as she slid into a chair opposite him. Her BlackBerry was in one hand, her own beer in the other. Her nose wrinkled briefly, but she managed a smile nonetheless and then sipped her drink. Another nose-wrinkle at that – no, Mycroft's consort would hardly be the type to appreciate the local swill.

“No shipwreck yet, babe,” he said in his best California-surfer-dude, and lifted his glass but didn't actually drink. Instead, he inspected her.

Jet-lagged, obviously; she'd only just arrived from Hong Kong. Worried more than usual, the crease between her brows deeply scored, her hands clasping and unclasping her drink in a signal she'd ordinarily never allow herself to send.

Anthea never worried about herself. Thus – “His plan _is_ stupid, isn't it?” he said.

“Yes. Yes, it is.” She gave him a half-smile, twisted. “But there was no talking him out of it.”

Mycroft's vaunted strategic thinking had utterly deserted him, Sherlock thought. The second-to-last of Moriarty's criminal plots to unravel, and the criminal in question – English, one of Mycroft's former assistants, pusillanimous and venal to the last degree – was embedded in the Los Angeles Consulate: therefore, Mycroft had idiotically decided he would make himself a decoy for the hour or so that the various and sundry American agents were collecting all but the main villain. Misdirection, so Alex Caton wouldn't notice what was happening.

_'It's a magic trick.'_ The memory was a familiar pain, such a habitual heartache that he almost didn't notice it any more. 

The trick to the trick was controlling where the mark looked.

“What?” Anthea said, impatient and tired. “Do you have something to say about the op?”

He gazed at her. She didn't register as a woman to him, not really. She had made her own category in his mind: adjacent to Mycroft and overlapping as one of Mycroft's signifiers, Mycroft's most significant attachment; Anthea as herself, clever and deceptive, competent and adventurous and a bit of a bossy-boots. 

“When did you decide he was yours?” he said.

She blinked, and then smiled. It was beautiful and cool, a true Anthea-smile. “The first time I ever saw him. He came to me, and I took him. He just didn't know it until later.”

_He came to me, and I took him._ There in the Barts laboratory, harsh light and the hum of equipment and a former Army doctor standing there, waiting for a home, waiting for a friend. Waiting for Sherlock.

John was almost ready to stop waiting, judging by the latest surveillance on 221B. It was time to end this exile. But first....

He leaned forward. “Want to change the op on him? Shake up his precious order?"

“Talk to me, little brother,” she said, tiredness gone.

Sherlock thought Mycroft deserved this, in so very, very many ways. It would be an absolute pleasure.


End file.
